


warmer

by clayre



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, like. REALLY light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25153963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: Alistair gets hurt. The Warden shows him a good time to get his mind off it. (And to get him off.)
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 119





	warmer

**Author's Note:**

> something quick and easy i did in between working on a longer, more serious fic!! does anyone else do that? they start getting tired of writing the fic they're writing/they need a break, so they instead write a different fic? LOL ♥♥♥ also, i have SO much respect for people who can write believably sexy porn. this shit is HARD!!!!

Alistair would call it an ambush. To be entirely fair, it sort of _was._

He was asleep in their tent, after all, when she launched her attack; only it hadn’t been planned, not really. She’d just been lying awake beside him, propped up on her elbow and studying the expanse of his naked back. Ferelden was cold and miserable more often than not, but in his mild fever and the insulation of their tent, padded with furs, he’d stripped to his skin, and she was currently taking advantage of the sight, drinking the firm lines and the soft curves of his body in.

At first, it had been borne of concern: he’d taken a great maul to his side a day ago, and the stark fear that roiled her stomach when his bones cracked under the blunt surface of it, when he crumpled from the force of it, had almost made her sick at the time. He lived, of course, but now his side was marbled with the bruise, and the Warden was observing it hard in the dim of their shared tent. Wynne had been able to set the broken ribs with one of her healing spells, and the poultices the Warden insisted on methodically applying to the wound at regular intervals eased his pain and sped the recovery up at the very least. Still, it was a rather ugly process and he was due for at least another two days of healing, even with Wynne’s magic and the poultices, but he hadn’t voiced any kind of complaint.

She could see it, though. After miles of walking with the heavy weight of his plate bearing down on him, he’d look paler with the strain of it, or she’d see him gritting his teeth through a cringe when he’d swing his sword through an adversary. She’d tried to restrict their travel by miles or hours, but he glowered at the idea of slowing them down, and she couldn’t make herself as stern as she wanted to be with him. She’d put her foot down and he’d put his down right back, and she’d folded because she could never say no to him ─ but the grin he’d given her made her weak in the face of him. Still, by the time they’d pitched camp for the night, he was clearly exhausted. She _tried_ to tell him not to agitate it, that he could make himself sick, but he’d only dismissed her and retired to their shared tent early. 

Hours later, she joined him, and she was watching him as she traced her fingers up along his side and his arm; his shoulders were relaxed and loose and his skin was sleep-warm, but the bruise itself was hot and yellow and purple, and he’d been lying on his good side since he’d gotten the injury. It made him twitch if she wasn’t careful with the pressure of her fingers, though he never stirred, and his face never got pinched with the ache of it.

It had started innocent enough. At first, the Warden just wanted to keep an eye on him, both to make sure his sleep was easy and comfortable, and because she adored him and she relished in the chance to see him so open and unguarded. She leaned over his shoulder, her cheek resting heavy in her palm, and she drank in the part of his mouth, his long eyelashes feathered out over his cheekbones, the dusting of freckles along the arc of his nose, the jut of his brow and the square curve of his jaw, masculine and handsome in the most irresistible way. He could have been sculpted, a statuesque profile fit to adorn the most sacred places of worship ─ oh, and the _things_ he did with his _eyebrows._ Lascivious and full of implication when he wielded them right, or endearing and charming and very nearly adorable every other time, though he’d gawk at being described as such.

She was just admiring him at first, she really was, but that had turned into her worming in close against his back, flush against him, and mouthing sweetly at the vulnerable, exposed swath of his throat. Her hand kept an unhurried tread along his side, so light it might have been ticklish, and while he didn’t move, he eventually rumbled out, voice thick with sleep, “Something on your mind?” The deep drag of it vibrated against her lips, and it sparked such insistent heat in her belly that she buried her mouth there, sucking the salt from his skin and then easing off with a wet _pop._ The languid noise of gratification that he murmured out only made the urgency in her stomach more insistent; a low, deep ‘ _mmm’_ that she could feel in his back, against her chest.

“Just you,” she told him, “and how I rather like you, sometimes, on certain occasions.” She settled her hand gentle over the mottled skin of his bruising. “Does it hurt?”

He made a sound that she took to be in the negative, clearly not entirely awake, and she grinned against him, absolutely taken with him. She peppered kisses there on the sturdy slope of his shoulder, one for each freckle, and he hummed, almost a purr. “Just me,” he finally echoed groggily, and when she chanced a glance upwards, his eyes were still shut. She’d wager he hadn’t opened them once. “Why do I get the idea there’s more to it?”

The intent behind her smile went a little wicked, and she slid her hand along his waist, just under his ribs, and then she moved lower, feeling the muscles of his abdomen jump as she palmed low on his stomach, teasing at the coarse, dark hair just under his navel. She was decorous about it, though, lightly winding her fingers through only the hair on his belly and no further. “No, no,” she said sweetly, “I’d hate to keep you up when you’re so very tired. By all means.”

Alistair mumbled something low, lost to his dozing, and his hand, so much larger than her own, settled over her wrist. His thumb ran over the tendons on the back of her hand, measured and languorous. Not entirely with her yet, then. He spoke up a second later, as though he’d just remembered to, “You think you’re so cute.”

“Aren’t I?”

His voice was still drowsy, but she could hear the smile in it all the same. “I can think of much better words to describe you.”

The huff of laughter that escaped her was quiet; it was late, and she didn’t want to disturb anyone else’s rest ─ only Alistair’s. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m thinking?” she prompted him, dropping her voice into a register that brooked no argument. It was the tone she used when she expected her demands to be met with no excuses, and the tractable way he responded to it was always gratifying.

He shivered. “I’m thinking you’re thinking of something that would have the Revered Mother of Bournshire blushing and banishing me to scrub the pots over,” he said, loud enough for her to hear, but still hushed. “Am I warm?”

She swept her hand lower against his tummy. “You tell me.” His hand was on her forearm, and he could have stopped her if he wanted, but he made no move to.

“Warmer,” he agreed, suddenly sounding more awake.

The Warden mouthed at his throat to hide her smile, and she could feel his hips shift, his legs falling open just a little more ─ his eagerness always flattered her. All it took from her was one well placed look, meaningful and lingering, and he’d be blushing all over, squirming under her scrutiny. It didn’t matter where, or when, and it was hard not to let that sort of obedience go to her head sometimes; she could have clicked her tongue as though she were commanding her war dog, and he’d have dropped to his knees. She walked her fingers down, rubbing against the grain as she began to get to the thick of his hair.

He tilted his head back, and she teased her canines into the corded muscle of his neck, incisors firm against his jugular. She could feel the twitch of his hips arcing forward, subconsciously seeking contact. “Warmer,” he breathed again.

“Yeah?” She nudged her knee between his thighs; he was complacent in how he let her encourage his leg over her own. His thigh, strewn over her hip, was solid, obscenely warm and soft on the inside, and she wanted to sink her teeth into it. Her fingers scraped through the dense hair at his pelvis, not touching him anywhere else, taking the moment simply to enjoy how heavy he was as he leaned back against her, his leg hooked over hers. He’d been so shy about how much weight he’d let her bear at first, wanting to be the perfect gentleman, but more and more these days she found he was overjoyed to be held, even if it meant sprawling his weight over the top of her.

His breathing was fast, and she’d hardly done anything to him. She let her fingers dip low, just barely brushing against the base of his pelvis, almost meeting his skin. He sucked in sharply, that quick panting from before abruptly stilling as he held it in his chest. “Eagerness becomes you,” she complimented him in a dark voice, and the sound he made was divine.

“Hot,” he insisted, more air than voice, and his hips canted forward, trying to get her to close the minuscule amount of distance between their skin. _“Hot.”_

And then she drew her hand away, smoothing over the inside of his thigh, and she enjoyed the warmth that seeped from his skin into her palm. The breath sounded punched out of him when she did, and she nudged forward until the knee she had between his legs was resting on the furs beneath them, tangling their thighs up together as she hooked her chin over his shoulder to look down at him. He was flushed and hard already. Affection and arousal rose in equal amounts in her belly, and she groped at his thigh, then his chest. She wanted to get her mouth or her hands all over him, but she couldn’t help herself: she loved seeing him squirm.

“Much colder,” Alistair groaned petulantly, and when she leaned back to take in his face, he’d cracked an eye open to look at her. “You’re a wicked woman, do you know that? Really, truly, I’ve never met a more cruel temptress.”

She kneaded her hands into his chest, drawing her fingers along his collarbones, tracing feather-light circles around his nipples, thumbing at the pulse point in his throat and pressing just this side of too-hard, a threat that made his voice catch. “You hurt me. I’m trying to be considerate, you know, because I was just thinking,” she said quietly, conversational as she hovered over him, “how late it is, and how exhausted you must be, so sore as you are . . . We shouldn’t do this now. Perhaps tomorrow?” She phrased it as a question, but she had every intention of making him come tonight; she only wanted to torment him, just a little. “I don’t want to . . . exacerbate your wound.”

He threw his head back theatrically like he was in a rush of pleasure, with a moan that was clearly acted out. _“Oh, please,_ exacerbate me.”

Her laughter broke from her mouth a little too loud, and she smothered her face into his cheek to muffle the noise. She could feel him smiling. “Now who thinks they’re cute?”

The feel of his palm running along the length of her bare arm was nice, almost chaste considering, and he bent at the elbow to weave his fingers through her dark hair. He dragged them across her scalp, until he was urging her face back so she could meet his eyes ─ even in the dark, they were light and sweetly honey colored. “Cute enough not to tease?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, though really she meant a resounding _yes,_ and she leaned forward on her elbow to kiss him. The dopey look he gave her when she tilted away was syrupy enough that she grinned back at him, running her hand along his neck and gripping, holding him in place, so that she could drink the sight of his face in. “You could always do it yourself, if it’s so urgent.”

His eyes were dark, and his cheeks were ruddy. “You just want to watch.”

“Maybe I do.” Her eyes caught the flutter of his eyelashes, the way he wet his mouth with his tongue. His breathing was audible now. “Like that, do you?”

He groaned, but it wasn’t out of frustration. She watched the roll of his body as his hips pitched forward, effortlessly sensual because it was so genuine and so uncontrolled; he had no idea how beautiful it was, even as it tortured her. “Don’t do this to me.”

She put her mouth next to his ear, talking muted into it as she tightened her hold on his throat, bordering on cutting his air off, “Then what would you have me do to you instead?”

His breathing burst out of him in staccato puffs, and his fingers flexed and tightened in her hair. _“Maker_ ─ touch me, please.”

The Warden rewarded him with action: tilting his face further towards her, she kissed him deeply, and slipped her hand between his legs with no further hesitation. The bitten gasp he choked out into her mouth she eagerly swallowed, running her hand slow and loose over the length of his cock, feeling him out. He was hard already, twitching in her palm, wet at the head ─ but not enough. Humming against his mouth, she drew her hand back, nudging his face away with her nose and forehead, her palm cupped in front of him. He spit into her waiting hand obediently, but she could see how his ears reddened from the act. She laughed despite herself; she adored him when he was shy. She smeared it around her hand, coating her fingers, and said, “One more, love,” into his cheek, and he did it again, then buried his face into the furs beneath them, moaning in a mix of arousal and embarrassment at doing something he perceived as degrading to her.

The drag was much less dry when she took him in hand again, and the way he went tense all over, face half-hidden, eyes screwed shut and cheeks red, his breaths short, was enough to make anyone fall in love with him. Really, sometimes she couldn’t believe no one had taken him to bed before she had, but the darkly covetous side of her was perfectly content with that. She took mercy, starting unhurried and careful with her pace, and she watched his expression shift from shame (that he clearly enjoyed) into pure, open pleasure, mouth parted as little sounds stuttered out of him.

She loved the velvety feel of him in her palm, skin pulled tight in his arousal, and she smeared her thumb over the wet head of his cock leisurely, appreciating the way the muscles in his tummy twitched, the way his hips rocked into her fist. “Is this what you wanted?” she purred against him, just to hear him say it.

“Yes,” he rasped, and she hummed an approving sound that had his back arching in an attractive sweep, and she wanted to put her mouth on the low dip of it, watching almost reverently as sweat began to gather there. She pressed her own forehead hard into the side of his neck, and then she smoothed her cheek into the skin and bone and muscle, her ear resting against his throat. She could hear his pulse pounding, fast like a rabbit, and the rhythm of it made her readjust her grip on his cock into something tight as she pumped her arm in time with it. He went still. _“Oh.”_

“Slower?” she asked, though she knew his answer before the word even finished leaving her mouth.

He didn’t disappoint. “No, no, sweet Maker, whatever you want,” he scraped out, and the rough timbre of his voice was more alluring than it had any right to be even as the words tripped out of him, fast like he couldn’t stop them, “do whatever you want ─”

“Careful,” she scolded him, punctuating the word with the warning drag of her teeth against his throat; she could feel his pulse against her mouth, pounding. “Dangerous words, Alistair.”

He finally pried his face away from the furs, and the dizzy look he wore made her heart swell with fondness. “That so?”

 _Always so willing._ She studied him intently, looking for a challenge there and finding only permission. “Not tonight,” she eventually said thickly, unable to mask the coarseness of her voice. Her grip went loose around him, delicately tracing the pads of her fingers up the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, listening to the watery gasps that her sparse ministrations pulled from him. “It’s late, and you’re tired. Just allow me the privilege of making you feel good.” Bending her head, she took his mouth in a kiss, feeling out the swell of his bottom lip with her tongue. He made a noise against her, a half-formed word that could have been a curse or a prayer or her name, and she appreciated the roll of his hips as he instinctually sought friction. 

“But the things I would do to you if I had all the time in the world,” she mused as she watched him, and the thrust of his cock into the relaxed circle of her fist made her grin. “You like that?” She didn’t let him answer, reigniting their kiss, damp and filthy, his stubble scratchy against her skin. Alistair moaned around her tongue, his hand shakily wrapping around her own, and she eased back, watching his chest rise and fall quickly. She let him tighten their joint grip on his cock, his hips pressing into the ring of their fingers, and she commended him with, “Beautiful, Alistair, that’s so good. Don’t stop.”

A deep moan issued out of him, his voice rough, and he rocked forward into their hands like he couldn’t help himself ─ which he couldn’t, she knew that. She loved him when he was like this, desperate and eager to please. In battle, he was normally so controlled: his form was practiced and tight, his hands disciplined in their work, his demeanor calm. But when she had him in bed, he was exactly the opposite, like he was suddenly too big in his body, hands moving constantly, unable to rest in one place, dazed and hazy and aroused and eager. She could have kept him like that forever and never gotten sick of it. She’d always be hungry for it.

“Wait,” he suddenly panted out, and he went still, “wait, wait ─ slow down ─”

“Why?”

“It’s ─ getting a little too good. If you, ah, catch my meaning. I’ll, ah ─ I won’t last,” he grunted, and when he flexed the muscles in his arm, he forced her to slow their rhythm to a complete stop. She tried to jerk her grip out of his so that she might continue, but he held fast. Impatient as she was, even she had to admire his strength, and when he met her eye, he grinned like he could see what she was thinking. “Behave.”

“Don’t I always?” Her mouth pulled into a grin, which she hid against his jaw. “You say you won’t last. Is that a problem?”

He made a sound low in his chest, almost like a growl, so decadent that the Warden’s toes curled in delight. She loved to boss him around almost as much as she loved to test his patience. His breath was hot against her mouth, and he tilted his chin up, trying to kiss her. She gifted him the barest brush of her lips, but until he let her hand go, she wasn’t going to reward him. “Don’t you ─ don’t you want ─”

“Alistair,” she scolded him fondly, and she could feel his fingers relaxing over her own in apparent submission, “what did I just say? Let me take care of you. Just lie still and be good for me.”

Another little noise burst out of him, and she wondered, wickedly, which sentiment affected him more: having her take care of him, or being good for her? She made a mental note to endeavor to find out later, but for the time being, she had control of her arm again. He raised his own and she willingly ducked under it, letting him wrap it around her, holding her to him, and his hand kneaded at the small of her back as she leaned over him. She restarted the quick pace of her strokes, pleased to find that he was still wet, and the heat of him made her own thighs squeeze together. The muscles in his stomach jumped on the downstroke, and when she rotated her wrist near the head of his cock, rubbing the sensitive skin against the meat of her palm, he made a sound that was practically devout, just on the cusp of a sob, and he groaned, _“Oh, please._ ” 

And, well, who could deny such a polite request? She kept the act mostly simple ─ he _was_ hurt, after all, and as much as she would have liked to spend hours taking him apart until he was weak with it, he was injured and he was tired, and she just wanted him to let her make him feel good . . . But it wasn’t entirely selfless, either. She could admit that, even without physical stimulation, it was just as rewarding for her to touch him as it was for him to be touched. Everything about it was as close to sanctity as she could get: the venerating, adoring way he’d look at her, no matter what they were doing, the wet give of his mouth, the hot tightness of his skin, the hard length of his cock, the deep sounds he’d sigh and groan and sometimes _whine,_ if she did something he found particularly congenial.

It didn’t take much longer after that, not as she kissed at any skin available to her, not as she kissed at his mouth, setting the pace dirty and purposeful as she pumped her hand over him. Each twist of her wrist had him speaking, tiny little pleas and _yes’s_ and her name, so quiet she almost couldn’t hear his voice, and he clumsily fumbled his hand up her waist so that he could cup at one of her breasts. She bit at her lip as he did, and when his fingers stroked along her sensitive skin until he was rolling a nipple between them, she breathed a moan into his mouth, and he made a broken noise and went still.

The Warden stroked him fast as he shuddered apart under her, wrecked _“oh, oh, oh”s_ spilling out of him all the while. She had her cheek flush against his own so that she might watch, and it was an exquisite sight: every line of his strong body was tight with pleasure, tremulous as his orgasm worked through him, and the rocking of his hips into her fingers was filthy wet and perfect and mouthwatering. She kept her hand working him tight-fisted near the head of his cock, as not to dampen any of their furs with his release, but she could still make out the thick ropes of it threatening to leak out from between her fingers and her knuckles. Each place their skin met was white-hot, and she knew they were both sweaty with it and likely sticking to each other, but when his mouth was _that_ reverent on her jaw and her throat, she couldn’t find a single thing to complain about.

Her thighs were slick with arousal, but she found her own release to be a distant concern when faced with his seed in her palm, her own breathing haggard. Alistair watched, panting, pupils blown wide enough that his eyes almost seemed black, as she slowly drew her hand away, dipping it downwards as though awaiting supplication. Once the milky come had dripped down and thickly coated her fingers, she presented her hand to Alistair and, without needing to be told, he sucked his spend from her skin with a heavy groan. The promise of his tongue as he worked it between her digits had her biting out a wounded noise despite herself, and she could feel him grinning against her knuckles, the peach fuzz of his cupid’s bow tickling her.

She withdrew her fingers once she felt they were properly clean, and she eased herself lower to plant gentle kisses to the hot welt against his side. He stretched out like a languid cat, offering her more skin to adore, and his fingers stroked through her hair leisurely as she pampered him. She mouthed from one rib to the next, adulatory and affectionate, and his breathing had changed from frantic to slow and deep once again.

“Sweet Maker, I should get hurt more often,” he said idly, and the relaxed, satisfied rumble of his voice pleased her to no end. She gave one of his ribs a last little kiss, and then she hoisted herself onto her hands and knees so that she could smile down at him. “I think I could get used to being spoiled.”

She laughed, shaking her head at him. _“Please_ don’t. My heart nearly gave out, Alistair, I thought I’d drop dead right along with you.” His mouth wobbled, and she could see a flash of teeth against his lip as he tried to fight the smile. “I’ll make a note to spoil you all the time, not just when you’re purple.”

“That would be appreciated.” He shifted, just slightly, until he was on his back; she watched with concern at the cringe on his face, the stiff way he’d frozen as he tried to get comfortable, but then he’d relaxed into the soft warmth of the furs. “I’m a prince, after all.”

“Oh?” If she weren’t so keyed up, she might not have taken his bait so literally, but her own ardor was still heavy and insistent in her stomach, and she knew her thighs and thoughts were sticky with it. She leaned over him, her voice low and silky, “Suddenly accepting of your bloodline, are we? Would your majesty like a willing vassal to serve him, to do everything he commands?”

He grinned wickedly at her, all teeth. “You know, that actually doesn’t sound so bad. A whole harem of pretty vassals, even.” She sat back sharply. He burst out laughing, reaching for her. “I jest! I jest! I was just getting into character! Only you!” She let him pull her to him, even as she pretended to be put out; it was hard to be even fake-annoyed, however, when both of his hands cupped her face, and he dotted kisses all over her mouth, her cheeks. It was sweet, but when he dipped low to her neck, the muscles in her belly fluttered in anticipation, and she breathed out a soft, barely voiced moan. He answered her with a hum. “Come here,” he said, suddenly darker, “I need to get my mouth on you.”

“Your mouth _is_ on me,” she pointed out shakily, but as he ran his calloused palms down her shoulders, she shuddered. “It’s late,” she breathed. “You don’t have to. I meant it when I said I just wanted to make you feel good.”

“I don’t think you heard me.” His voice was stern. “I said I _need_ to get my mouth on you.” His hands swept lower, cupping both of her breasts. “And if you really want to be semantic about it, then I _need_ to get my mouth on your cunt. You want to make me feel good? That’s how.” The feel of his palms against her nipples made her bite her lip against a moan, but it escaped her mouth when he pinched at one, circling his thumb over the sensitive peak. “Besides, you’re the one who woke me up. The consequences are on your head, Warden.”

Her title shocked a laugh out of her, and he grinned at her, his eyes lit up. “Don’t be cute with me, or I’ll _treat_ you like the Warden.” The lascivious waggle to his brows told her all she needed to know about how he felt about that. “Maker. I’ve created a monster.” Wetting her bottom lip, she pulled away from him, swinging a leg over his waist and kneeling astride him. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind, if you’re too tired.”

He reached for her again. His thumb was gentle and very nearly worshipful as it followed the same path her tongue had only moments ago. It left her lip tingling. “So selfless,” he murmured, playful and fond, “it breaks my heart.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, even as she cupped his hand in hers, kissing the inside of his wrist, then the center of his palm, his fingers. 

“Dramatic? Me? Perish the thought.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Get up here and sit on your throne then, my lady.”

The Warden laughed, shoving his hand away from her in mock disgust, and she carefully maneuvered herself forward, wary of his shoulders; he was more than happy to edge further down, his hands solid and persistent on her waist as she settled, and she’d barely gotten her balance when he leveraged himself up and buried his mouth against the wet heat of her cunt. She squeaked despite herself, tilting back on her calves from the shock of pleasure that rocked her core.

(Alistair _loved_ this. They’d discovered his affinity for it very briefly after their first intimate night together, and he’d gone down on her so happily and for so long that she almost thought he would have spent the rest of the night between her legs. She’d eventually drawn him up by his hair when she couldn’t take another orgasm, everything too bright and intense, and he’d grinned at her through the damp shine of her silky arousal all over his mouth. He’d been insufferable for the next handful of minutes as she gathered her bearings and recomposed herself, lounging out beside her and goading, “That good, huh? I’m a natural, what can I say? You sure you don’t want me to keep going? I could do that all night. Oh, but I’d hate you to overstrain yourself, my dear.” She’d humored him and laughed along with him, but he’d promptly swallowed any sort of laughter once she’d swallowed his come in return; he’d worn one of the most beautiful faces she’d ever seen on him when she took him deep into her throat, a mixture of awe and devastation, and her name sounded like prayer in his mouth, somehow holy and profane all at once. After, they’d sprawled out together, drunk with affection and really good sex, and she’d slept better than she had in _months.)_

She worried on her bottom lip with her teeth while he warmed into it, starting with open-mouthed kisses all over her inner thighs, the soft, sensitive joint where pelvis met leg, and then into her cunt with minute flicks of his tongue. When she combed her fingers through his hair, he looked up at her, and it was overwhelming: his cheeks flushed red, his sweet brown eyes equal parts affectionate and deferential. The moan that broke from her mouth when he did so made him smile against her, though, and she could feel the curve of his mouth when he dipped lower, nosing at her clit while he grinned to himself, evidently proud, or flattered, or maybe both. Once he was able to fight it off, he was back to business, and the obscene noises of his sticky mouth against the slippery wet of her cunt were intoxicating, and as much as she wanted to watch, she found her head tilting back and eyes slipping shut so she could focus on the feeling of his tongue, his lips, the stubble of his chin.

Whatever he lacked in technique he made up for, tenfold, through pure, genuine, unbridled enthusiasm. He was eager with it, moaning against her like it was _him_ deriving pleasure from the act rather than the other way around, and when she’d tighten her fingers in his hair, his mouth would get suddenly more insistent, his tongue would drag rougher. His hands were weighted on her waist, urging her to angle closer to him and keeping her near; she scraped her nails across his scalp as she moved one of her own hands to his nape, holding him to her so he wouldn’t put too much of a strain on his neck. Whenever she’d shudder out a breath, or a moan, he’d answer in kind, humming low and deep in his chest, and she’d feel it reverberating into her.

When she let her head loll forwards again, she peeked at him from underneath her eyelashes. He was greedy with it, pulling her closer to his mouth and showering her with attention, and her thighs looked soft and muscular around his ears, which were pointed and red with his blush. “You look good like this,” she told him, though even she could hear the tight quality of her voice, pitched to a smooth dulcet.

He tilted his face back so that she could watch him draw his tongue along the inside seam of her, then pressed down again, sucking gently on her clit. His eyes never left hers all the while. She saw sparks, shivering over him, and he asked against her, “What? Between your legs?”

Her answer was choked off. “Among other things.”

“I’ll bet,” he replied, darkly amused, and his fingers felt like hot points of pressure against her sides, firm as he ran his hands down along the curve of her waist until they settled on the width of her hips. He mouthed at the juncture of her pelvis. “You look good like this too.” He sounded breathless and adoring as he said it, and his eyes were bright when she met his gaze. She’d been flushed from his attentions as it were, but the words coupled with the way he’d said them had her cheeks burning. She turned her face away, her breath shuddering out of her in swift pants.

“Flirt.”

Alistair barked out a laugh, sinking his teeth into the meat of her thigh; she groaned, the pang of it boiling into arousal in her gut. “I don’t think I need to flirt anymore,” he pointed out, kissing at the spot he’d nicked her, “considering you’re currently sitting on my face. I think it’s safe to say all the flirting’s been successful.”

She massaged her fingers along his scalp, soothing and careful and light. “I’m a demanding lover,” she disagreed, “and I need to be wooed, courted, and flirted with, constantly, all the time.” Then she tightened her grip, forcing his head back to the floor. The sound that followed him was creaky and hot, and when she shot a glance over her shoulder, she could see he was hard again, and he’d likely been so for the last couple of minutes. His cheeks were crimson, and his mouth was soaked with her. “You’re a romantic, aren’t you? Think you’re up to the task?” As she asked it, she angled herself lower, keeping him prone to the floor, just out of reach of her cunt. His fingers flexed into her hips, biting into her skin, trying to close the distance. 

“Maker, yes,” he gasped.

“Good boy,” she purred, and he half-blinked at her, mouth slack. “It’s still your night, Alistair. How do you want it to end?” Leaning herself back, she let her fingers draw airily over the length of his cock, feeling it twitch into her palm. “Want me to ride you? Or do you want to get me off like this?"

He groaned. “That’s an impossible ─ impossible choice,” he managed.

She straightened “Make it.”

The commanding tone of her voice had his eyelids fluttering again, and he clutched at her waist, her hips, her ass, her thighs; his hands settled there, hooked over her thighs, his fingers spreading her cunt apart. She was close enough she could feel his breath on her, hot and damp and frantic, and he nodded shortly against her hand ─ as much as he could, at least, while she held him down. “Get you off.”

She seated herself without further invitation, and he hungrily licked up into her, like a man starving. Pitching over him, she held him by the back of the head, holding him as close as he wanted to be, as close as she wanted him to be. Her other hand was currently occupied by her mouth; she was biting into the meat of her palm, just under her thumb, and she moaned and whimpered and gasped into it in an attempt to muffle the noise lest they get a very angry greeting in the morning from Wynne. When he pressed his tongue inside her, though, the world whited out at the edges.

“Oh,” she breathed when his nose nudged against her clit, “I’m close.”

He might have said something, she wasn’t sure, but for a moment his tongue left her and she felt the vibration of his voice against her cunt, and then he was back to it. He wormed an arm under her, and he replaced tongue with fingers ─ his were long and broad, bigger than hers, and the two of them he curled inside her made her nearly buckle over. She tangled her grip into the furs beneath them, holding herself upright on a shaky arm as he pumped his fingers in, mouth focusing all his attention onto her clit. He said something again, but this time she heard it; a scratchy little _yes, come on,_ nearly smothered in her cunt as he rolled his tongue against her.

She jerked backwards again, one more time, and she held him down with her white-knuckled hand in his hair. “Say please.”

“Please,” he rasped immediately.

Almost. “Please what?”

His hand was urgent on her waist, and he was buried inside her to the knuckle with his other one, but he’d obediently ceased his movements. The poor dear was squirming. “Please let me make you come.”

That alone was nearly enough to get her there, but Alistair hurtled them the rest of the way when she pulled him back to her, and he moaned along with her when she shuddered apart over him, drawn out and weak as he sucked the wetness away from her skin. He mouthed sloppy and covetously against her cunt while she came undone, his fingers persistent inside her as she squeezed down on them, helping to milk her orgasm.

Like she normally did, she let him keep at it while she relaxed, blinking the stars from her eyes and slowly gathering herself together again. He’d slowed, too, but he was still eager in how he ate her out, and he didn’t stop until she hefted herself away on wobbly knees. He pulled his fingers out, but the madman stroked them along her cunt’s seam instead of leaving her be, and she groaned out a weak noise when he teased against her clit. “I could seriously spend the rest of my life making you come,” he told her, awe-struck, and she breathed out a sweet little moan that had him humming in kind. “Blight? What Blight? I don’t know of any Blight. All I know is I have a darling woman who makes the most sinful noises when I touch her, and I should be doing it all the time.”

The Warden grit her teeth against his touch, huffing out overwhelmed sounds as he worked his fingers back inside her. “Don’t tempt me,” she said, haggard, and he laughed. Truly, however, the way he’d said _the rest of his life_ had caught her like a hook, and there was an uneasy, but pleasantly tight feeling in her chest and her stomach. She dismissed it as idle pillow talk, mostly meaningless flattery, and left it at the back of her mind, unaddressed. “Wanna bet?”

He finally drew his hands away from her, stroking them slow and affectionate up and down her thighs. “Always. What are we wagering?”

She nodded towards the hard line of his cock. “Bet I can make you come before you can finish a verse from the Chant of Light.”

Alistair scoffed at her, though the cocky effect he was going for was a little ruined, considering he was wet from his nose down to his chin. She leaned down and kissed him through it, and he tangled his dry hand through her hair. “You’re on. Which one?” he asked into her mouth.

She thought on it, kissing him all the while. “How about the one about the priests of Beauty? When they get corrupted?”

He pushed her away, but not unkindly. He seemed annoyed nonetheless, but it was a playful sort, and his mouth was fighting a smile. “Not a chance. That one’s way too long.” Primly, he added, “Cheater. Most unbecoming of you.”

The Warden grinned. “The one where Hessarian lights the pyre?”

The grimace on his face made her throw her head back in her laughter. “Cute,” he deadpanned, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Really. Nothing gets me off faster than reciting the Canticle where Andraste gets, oh, you know, burned alive. _Hot._ Literally.” She had reeled back with mirth, her forearm hovering over her mouth as she tried to get herself under control. He muffled her too-loud giggling with his mouth, pulling her back down to him and kissing at her so sweetly that she could have melted. 

“Then the Canticle of Andraste,” she said against his lips, and she nosed along his cheek to kiss at his brow. “When she asks the Maker to give His children another chance. What do you say to a sovereign if I get you to come before you finish the verse?”

Alistair grinned. “All right. Just so you know, I’m gonna buy one of those great big cheese wheels that you hate. When I win, of course.”

“Oh? We’ll see.”

His voice had broken around _for you, song-weaver, once more I will try,_ and she swallowed his spend quite happily through it; to be fair, however, he’d had several long pauses during his litany where he’d try to catch his breath, or he would moan, or he would get lost and he’d have to remember how the next line went, so it wasn’t an entirely equal battle.

Nonetheless, when she drew herself up, politely wiping the corners of her mouth with her thumb and sucking away any mess, he had a hand flung out, half-buried in his pack. He tossed his coin purse into her own waiting hands, though he looked rather like he was the victor as he stretched himself out, arms hooking behind his head with a satisfied grin as he watched her rob him of a sovereign.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, as she slipped the coin into her own purse. She sat back on her calves, a rag raised to the canteen she’d fished out from her pack, and she wet the cloth generously and passed it to him.

She eased into a spot beside him, carefully diagonal, so that she could rest her head on his shoulder but not jostle his wound. “Anything.”

He gratefully wiped at his mouth with the damp cloth. “Breathing hard makes my side hurt.” She slapped her hand sharply against his chest as she hastily sat up, and he burst out into mean spirited cackling. “Ow! Ow! So does laughing!”

“You should have said,” she scolded him hotly, cheeks burning. Really, she should have _known;_ all that panting surely couldn’t have been good for him, every time he’d rolled his body into her hands . . . “I am an idiot,” she bemoaned, “here I was, thinking I was so clever, but this whole time you’ve been grinning and bearing it. Maker.”

Alistair’s smile was bright and perfect and wonderful, and she found herself flushing for reasons beyond mortification. He tossed the rag into a forgotten corner, holding his arm out to her instead. “You are clever,” he assured her, though it admittedly sounded _less_ reassuring as he laughed around the words. “The most clever person I’ve ever met. Come here.” She settled down beside him again, leaning her cheek onto the back of her hand, her arm thrown out over his chest. His own wrapped around her waist, and his chuckling had trailed off into amused little hums in his chest. “Trust me. I was doing _much_ more grinning than I was bearing it. It wasn’t a bad kind of hurt ─ made everything . . . sharper.” _That_ caught her interest, and she found herself catapulted into thinking about the possibility that sentiment held. “Give me a day, my dear. I’ll be good as new.” His fingers drew a lazy path up along her belly, her ribs. “Then you can break me in again.”

The Warden hid her flushed cheeks and her smile against his shoulder, trying to muffle her glow. “Can I tell _you_ something?”

He echoed her. “Anything.”

“I think it’s kind of sexy when you recite the Chant in bed.”

He laughed once more. “Do you? Naughty.” His fingers had slowed, and she could tell he was warm and aching and most probably tired. “What would Ferelden say if they knew their Wardens got off on blasphemy?”

She propped her chin up against her hand so she could meet his eye and she grinned ─ she hadn’t missed him lumping himself in with her. “Oh? You think so, too? You’re a bad, bad man.” He rolled his eyes, but his cheeks had started to turn a little pink. She dipped her head to kiss his stubbled jaw. “Something about the idea of uptight Templar types trying to resist temptation, only to succumb to it . . . very nice.”

“Next time,” he said, his eyes hooded as he looked at her, “you can be the wicked seductress, and I’ll be the poor, pious Templar who gives into you. My recollection of all those Canticles will finally come in handy. I’ll smite you and everything. I hear it tingles.”

Her laughter came as easy as breathing. “Time after that, you can be king, and I’ll be your new favorite consort who does everything you ask quite happily, no matter how filthy,” she teased back, and he hummed out a playful sound, but it was edged with approval. They beamed at each other for a few long heartbeats, until she couldn’t take it, and she had to kiss his mouth one more time.

After that, they were quiet. His fingers had meandered into a crawl, barely moving, and his breathing was deep and relaxed. She drew her own shapes on his chest, toying with the fine hair there and feeling the planes of his muscles under her palm, and she’d thought he’d been asleep when he asked, groggily, “What’ll you buy?”

It took her a moment to remember what he was asking about, and she readjusted herself to look up at him. “With the sovereign?” He made a drowsy sound, his eyes closed, and she grinned as she studied his face. She loved him, more than anything. She rested her cheek on his shoulder again, his heartbeat a steady, comforting _thud,_ and she answered him softly, “One of those great big cheese wheels that I hate.”

His mouth was warm on the crown of her head. “What for? For me?”

“For you,” she agreed.


End file.
